Would It All Be Mine?

sky space telescope universe

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If the ocean turned pink,

then it would be mine.

If the earth changed rotation,

it would be mine.

If the sparrows barked,

they would be mine.

And if the mice spoke,

they would be mine too.

If up became down and down up,

they would be mine.

And if sound became silence

and sight the blackness of night,

they would be mine.

 

If only I stayed silent.

If I had stayed silent

and the ocean turned pink

and the earth changed rotation

the sparrows barked

the mice spoke

and the universe turned itself inside out

and sound and sight disappeared

into the black void of an ancient catacomb

…if I stayed silent,

would it all be mine?

Surely, it would never be yours.

Forty-Six

How long does it take

for a heart to no longer feel?

For the blood to coagulate

and harden?

How long does it take

for the heart to beat against itself-

its soft tissue slapping a relic

of an unfortunate past,

a pulse with no flow,

alive yet dead,

pounding on the door of an empty house?

There is no one home.

After forty-six years

its tenant has left.

 

 

Spindle-Fingered Trees

Winter SkyTrees lurch from an icy wasteland,

their spindle fingers clawing at the sky,

hoping for something to grab hold of,

but there is nothing they can do-I told them so.

Their roots reach too deep into the ground.

There is no way to loosen earth’s grip

unless, of course, I chop them down.

But it strikes me that death is not what they desire.

The poor things are too stupid-they think they can fly.

I can fly-away

-in a plane.

Or, perhaps, not.

Perhaps only in my mind.

But they can’t.

And so I think they are afraid.

I understand.

Sometimes I am afraid too-to be left here.

Sometimes I fear a horrible beast will set fire to this ice-and it will melt

and we will all drown.

flailing and choking on the last of our breaths

until we quiet and sleep

and the ground once again freezes and sprouts trees born of loss

so that they too can reach their spindle fingers into the sky and hope that in the gray nothingness lies

salvation.

 

 

The Moon and the Yew Tree by Sylvia Plath

I didn’t plan to discuss poetry on the show, but two weeks ago I listened to a reading of Sylvia Plath’s The Moon and the Yew Tree, a work that is startlingly haunting and beautiful, and I just couldn’t let go of it. This week I talk about not only the poem but the importance of broadening the lens by which we view Plath.

Transcendence

This floor, I do not mind.

It is not impenetrable.

I can still feel the quake beneath my feet.

Despite its lacquer finish that attempts to hide the worm holes,

I can still hear the buzzing

and feel the vibration of insects

swarming underfoot.

I quite like it, really

the sound of all that chaos.

It is a welcome reprieve from the mortuary silence within these clean white walls

and this pretty floor that, try as it might,

cannot hide from me all that clamors for my attention.

But this ceiling

this ceiling is a problem.

It too shines as if no spider ever dare crawl across its surface.

I could lie here naked upon this cool, smooth floor looking up into the eternal void of this antiseptic ceiling.

I could lie here and feel the rumble of armies storming forth from the core.

I could press my back into the wood just to feel the pummels of the invading marauders.

I could enjoy it.

I would enjoy it

if not for this ceiling.

This clean, white ceiling

that keeps me safe,

that keeps me here.

Is It Real?

forest photography

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

I believe that most artists have one question that drives their work. Through their craft they strive to find the answer or explanation to that singular uncertainty which haunts them.

Does God exist?

Does the devil?

Who is my father? My mother?

Am I a monster?

Are you?

What did happen that night?

What is wrong with me?

What is wrong with the world? What did he mean when he said___________?

What did she mean?

Was it all a mistake?

Did I do the wrong thing?

Did I live the wrong life?

For me, I write to find the answer to this question: Is it real?

Is it real? Is his love real? Is her love? Is this person my loved one claims to be real? Was it all real, all those beliefs and principles? Are your feelings, your affections, real? Are mine? Are you real? The person you assure me you are, are you real? Is everything my life is built upon real? Is all I hold dear real? Is the deer I just saw in my lawn real? Is that color of my lawn, the verdant green of the grass, real? Is that black speck I see out of the corner of my eye real? Is something really there? Those voices I hear as I lie in bed, are those real? That person that I see standing in my doorway as I drift off to sleep real, is she real?

Is it real? This is the most terrifying of questions because it is followed by-if it is real, what then? And, if it is not real, what was it?

Is it real? The answer to this question can be the most assuring or terrorizing of responses, but, more frightening than the answer itself is the uncertainty which drives the question. The uncertainty of what truly is. The terror lies in the not knowing.

I wrote Fade Into Another Place as I witnessed my mother succumb to the horrors of dementia-a disease that damns its victims to an eternity unknowns.  An eternity of wondering, is it real?

Fade Into Another Place

Out of the corner of my eye

I spy

a flash.

It is black.

Perhaps a cat?

Not my cat.

He has long since departed.

But another,

I imagine,

who has found his way inside

this place where I reside.

Funny though.

Not too long ago,

I had a visit from a friend

who everyone tells me

has long been dead.

But oh so real

as we sat and had a cup of tea.

“Don’t you see?”

I asked.

“She is here,

as plain as can be.”

Is it something that haunts this place?

I contemplate

as I sit

and wait

for another friend to arrive.

But, I know.

I know.

This is an empty place,

and I must journey alone.

No friends to accompany me

as I make my way

past faceless strangers who talk and whisper.

I listen,

and I try to hear.

Will they confirm my deepest fear?

Their voices rise-

a cacophonous symphony

as they chatter

chatter

chatter

“Stop!”

Silence is what I need

to concentrate and discern

what is real

and what is make believe.

And so I go

and go

and go

until I fade away

into another place

where, perhaps,

I will be young again.